


Anger

by Aubrin Kohl (milknhoney)



Series: One Word Prompt Fills [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Ignored Safeword, M/M, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Self-Defense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:17:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milknhoney/pseuds/Aubrin%20Kohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In anger, many decisions tend to be regrettable. Even those that weren't yours.</p>
<p>James makes very regrettable decisions that lead to Q to make some, and a douchebag 'aids' Q with it.</p>
<p>One Word Prompt Fill: Graffiti.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger

**Author's Note:**

> I had a bad day and it bled through, poor babies. Trigger warning for ignored safewords, and rape.

The first fight they had when James was stressed and intoxicated was one he would eternally regret. He struck Q, not once, but twice. The first, Q glared and made a point of stepping away and told James to sit down. The second, Q caught his hand in an iron grip.

                “Leave, now,” Q hissed. “Come back before I contact you and you will regret it,” Q said. James, head foggy and aching, obeyed, sitting on the bank of the Thames on the Queen’s promenade, shivering in the January sleet.

                Q meanwhile, sat cross legged on the bench of the baby grand piano in his living area, smoking a cigarette and thinking over what happened. His skin felt over tight, practically vibrating with the tension. Once his cigarette had burned down, he tossed it down into the ash tray and stalked to his bedroom, opening the window of the room as far as he could, welcoming the icy embrace of the rush of air. He stripped, pulling from his closet a pair of faded black, ripped jeans, a tight black t-shirt, and a leather jacket that was like a second skin. He selected a pair of thick, lamb’s wool socks, the pair of black boots impractical for his job; too many buckles.

                Q rummaged through the bag on his dresser, finding the black eyeliner he was looking for. Once he was content with that, he found the silver metallic liner, and added it to his lower lash line. Then he grabbed his fedora, and left the house.

                He took the train into London, and within the next hour had made it to his destination; a club that wasn’t likely found by advertisement. The cliental spread its existence by word of mouth. He’d been a semi-regular since he’d heard about it nearly four years earlier.

                He found what he was looking for quickly. A man nearly twice his weight, a whip curled at the man’s side.

                “Open for business?” Q asked the man, peering up through his lashes, and the man grinned.

                “What can I do for a pretty little thing like yourself?” The man asked, trailing a hand across Q’s neck.

                “Pain,” Q’s lips curled up. The man hummed thoughtfully.

                “I can do that for you,” The man put a hand on Q’s lower back. The man’s private room made it clear he was favored; it featured a large bed with silk sheets, and plenty of restraints.

                “Safe word?” The man asked.   

                “Red should do nicely,” Q smiled. The man nodded.

                “Strip,” The man commanded, and Q did. He was directed to kneel at the edge of the bed, wrists cuffed and extended towards the ceiling, facing away from the man. Q gripped the chain that crossed his palm. The first crack of the whip didn’t hurt as much as Q had expected, the second more so. The third drew a moan from Q, the caress of the leather slicing into his skin what he needed. Six more blows had Q straining, leaning into the blows. He felt the heat of his abused flesh, the slight trickle of blood. At the twentieth strike, Q jerked, the curl of the whip reaching his collar bone. His breath hissed out at the rough palm that smoothed over his back.

                “Color?” The man asked.

                “Green as the fucking grass,” Q responded, angry at the break. The man chuckled, and then there was a thud as the man changed tools and the flogger beat into Q’s back, never once hitting where it shouldn’t. Q’s moans weren’t what the man expected. Instead of pained, they were sensual.

                “Quite the little pain slut, aren’t you?” The man asked. Q nodded, straining against where he was restrained, body betraying how much he needed different attention. The man leaned closer, and Q hissed as a warm tongue traced some of the welts on his back, moving as close as he could to the attention.

                “Someone’s starved you of this,” The man observed. Q whimpered when his mouth bit down at the skin at the back of his shoulder. “Are you looking for more from me?” The man asked as he released Q’s binding. Far in subspace, Q had to force himself to shake his head.

                “No,” He managed. The man frowned and kissed him, hand moving south.

                “No, red, red, red,” Q managed. The man ignored him, covering Q from behind and pressing him down on the mattress. Q pleaded with the man, repeating “red” over and over, but he couldn’t reach anything heavy enough to hit the man off. His attempted blows just served to push the man further into lust. He finally reached the lamp, smashing it into the side of the man’s head, the heavy glass base cracking with the force, and the man fell limply next to Q. Q checked for a pulse, and didn’t find one. In a panic, Q dressed, and climbed down the Ivy conveniently outside the building.

                By the time he made it back to Surbiton, he was soaked through and shivering. He bought the cheapest vodka he could find, and a pack of cigarettes, the familiar “smoking kills” label invoking a thought he hadn’t felt in a long time: “I hope so.”

 

                James was passed out drunk, and when he awoke with a headache, he checked his mobile. One text from Eve mentioning Q called in sick. One missed call from Q. All the message said, in a broken voice was “I need you, please.”

                He broke lots of speed limits in his drive from the City to Surbiton. When he made it into Q’s house, he was on red alert. The shower was running, and it stunk of vodka, vomit, and cigarette smoke. Q’s clothes were in a trail leading upstairs, notable his jeans which had semen and blood crusted in them. James’ vision went red when he got to the bathroom. Q was curled under the long cold spray of the shower, back showing the graffiti of another man’s sex to James.  A half drunk bottle of vodka lay just out of the spray of water, with a pack of mostly smoked cigarettes and an ash tray beside it. The vomit was in the toilet, which told James that it had been before Q had turned on the shower. James, angry still, turned off the spray of water, and nudged Q with his toe. All Q did was curl smaller and begin to shake with sobs.

                “Q,” James said softly, kneeling and shaking Q. Q shook his head.

                “I’m sorry,” Q slurred.  James stroked his hair.

                “Let’s get you dry and you can tell me what happened,” James said, grabbing a towel and guiding Q out of the shower.  Q ‘s knees gave out when James got him standing. James caught him, carrying him out to the bench in the hallway, drying him off as gently as he could. He got a jumper for Q, and a pair of track pants. When Q was dressed, and still shivering, James carried him into the bedroom, placing Q under the heavy duvet. He sat next to him, stroking Q’s hair.

                “Q,” James prompted.

                “I went to a club,” Q said dully. “Just wanted pain,” Q said. “Didn’t want what I got.” Q’s eyes were screwed tightly shut.

                “What happened?” James asked.

                “Safe worded when he wanted sex,” Q said. “He didn’t listen,” Q whimpered. James stood angrily.

                “Don’t bother. He’s dead,” Q said. “Didn’t mean to. Grabbed a lamp, smash,” Q began crying again. James curled around him, offering as much comfort as he could. “I’m sorry,” Q repeated.

                “I forgive you,” James murmured, knowing that Q wouldn't want to hear that it wasn't his fault.


End file.
